St Patrick's Day
by Petunia846
Summary: The things he couldn’t say out loud were always like poetry written all over his face. At this moment it was telling me how sorry he was that it would never be safe for me to return to Ireland.


_Well I'm a day late, but hopefully not a dollar short in your books. I was thinking of this all day yesterday, but didn't have a chance to write until I got home. Pesky job! I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to let me know if I've messed up anything about St. Patrick's Day. It's not really a big holiday for me, so I could very well be mistaken and would love to fix anything that doesn't work._

* * *

It was a relatively cool day, by Miami standards, but it was March so by any other standards I had no right to complain. The doors to the balcony were wide open to provide ventilation for the project I was working on, but every once in awhile the cool breeze would sneak in and make me shiver. Despite the chill, I held the soldering iron steadily up to the solder and let the liquid metal drip just the right amount onto the computer chip on the workbench. Setting the tools down for a moment, I rotated the chip so that I could attack the other side better. I picked up the solder and the iron again and held them in place right as the phone started to ring…loudly.

"Damn it," I cursed under my breath as a large drop of solder fell in the wrong place and effectively ruined the device I'd just spent two hours working on.

I flipped open the phone as I yanked the soldering iron cord out of the wall angrily.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Whoa, hey there, Mike. Everything okay?"

I sighed and dropped the tiny chip into the trash. "Yeah, Sam, sorry. It's just not the best time is all. What's up?"

I could hear conversation in the background. "Nothing, nothing, I just wondered if you'd heard from Fiona today. I've called her like four times and she won't answer. Ms. Reynolds and I are having some people over for St. Patrick's Day and well, Ms. Reynolds and her mom wanted to meet the crazy Irish woman your mom and I talk about so much."

"Um, Sam, are you sure that's a good idea? And what exactly are you saying about Fiona? You know it's not a good idea to-"

"Come on buddy, I'm not an idiot. Just…things come up sometimes…funny stories. They're dying to meet you too, you know. You two should both come over. Your mom's already here…"

"Great," my eyes rolled involuntarily.

"Yeah, so listen, you go find Fi and bring her over here, okay? I've gotta go, we're running low on whiskey. Later brother!"

"Bye Sam." I hung up and got ready to dial Fiona. While I had no desire to spend this evening drinking with anyone, especially not my mother, it was troubling that Fiona wasn't responding to Sam's calls. When I thought about it, I realized that it had been almost a full twenty-four hours since I'd spoken to her myself. That was pretty long for us lately. Since the incident with O'Neill we'd been the closest we'd been since before I had to leave Ireland. Even if there was no case, we'd usually end up seeing each other at some point during the day either for a meal, to workout, at the gun range, or to spend the night together.

Yesterday though she'd been grumpy at breakfast. She'd barely touched the eggs I made and had snapped at every other thing I said, so I'd snapped at her myself and then left.

My finger hesitated over the speed dial button that was programmed for her number but I pressed it anyway. It kept ringing until I got her voicemail.

"You've reached Fi. Leave a message."

I sighed, grabbed my sunglasses and keys, and headed out to find Fiona.

***

I had purposefully picked the noisiest, least authentic Irish pub in Miami in which to drown my sorrows on this year's St. Patrick's Day. That way, if anyone did come looking for me it'd be the last place they'd look. And, by the look on Michael's face, my plan had worked perfectly. He spotted me from the other end of the bar and there was no way I could avoid him any longer so I tipped my chin up in greeting and went ahead and ordered him a beer.

This place was filled to the brim with tourists and locals alike, all of them decked out in more shades of green than I ever knew existed. There were a few full out leprechaun costumes and a group of girls with green hair and wiggly shamrock antenna headbands. I swiveled the stool around with my back to the bar and watched in amusement as Michael slowly pushed his way through the crowd like they were a bunch of aliens. He hated bars…too loud and too many people to keep an eye on. That he was here, looking for me in what would be his last choice of locations to spend the evening, said a lot about our relationship now and went a long way towards improving my bad mood. I couldn't help smiling to myself.

He looked close to tears by the time he finally made it to my side. To anyone else the expression would have looked like stoicism, but I knew the real emotion behind the mask he put up. He took a deep breath and took hold of my shoulders. He leaned his face in close to mine so that he didn't have to scream over the crowd. "Fiona Glenanne," he said in exasperation. "Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?"

Well…if he was going to be this grumpy, maybe I wouldn't play nice. Without actually answering, I looked him up and down and then leaned forward to brush my lips against his sweetly in order to distract him while I pinched his nipple…hard.

"Damn it, Fi!" He jumped back and swatted at me. "I'm going to have more bruises by tomorrow than I had after my first week in that Russian prison. Do you know how many bars I've been in tonight looking for you? And every single drunken sorority sister has taken it upon herself to remind me that no, I'm not wearing any fucking green."

"Don't blame me for that, Michael. I didn't ask you to go looking for me and I certainly wasn't the one who picked out your clothes this morning." I turned back around to face the bar and finish my beer.

I could see him out of the corner of my eye thanks to the reflection of a mirror on the wall. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and then came to stand beside me and lean against the bar. The bartended came by and placed the beer I'd ordered in front of him.

"Anything else for you two?" he asked.

"No, thank you," I smiled thinly.

Michael and I stood there like that for a few moments, drinking our deep, dark ale and thinking. The rest of the pub reverberated behind us with Irish folk music, laughter, and boisterous conversation.

"Do you remember that pub underneath my apartment where I lived when we met?" I asked him finally.

He glanced over at me but quickly went back to staring at the wall of bottles behind the bar. "O'Conners," he answered.

"I wonder if it's still there," I mused.

"I'm sure they're still home to countless bar fights a night and the worst chips in all of Belfast."

"Maybe. Sean said the area's changed a lot lately."

Now I felt his eyes on me. "When did you talk to Sean?"

"A couple days ago," I glanced at him then turned back to my drink. I took a big sip and finished it off. The rest of the explanation didn't need to be spoken.

We stood there quietly for a few seconds before he whispered, "Fi." I jumped at his touch on the small of my back. For a moment I'd forgotten he was even there, or more accurately I'd forgotten _I_ was even _here_.

Looking over at him I could read him like a book. The things he couldn't say out loud were always like poetry written all over his face. At this moment it was telling me how sorry he was that it would never be safe for me to return to Ireland.

"It's okay, Michael," I told him. "It's just life. What do they say? You can never go home again?"

"Mmm," he murmured, pulling me over to him. "And it's impossible to step into the same river twice."

"Exactly." I let myself lean into his side. "I only miss it on days like this."

He laughed. "Is that why you've spent the day in the worst Irish pub in the whole city?" he poked my side playfully.

I twisted us around and wrapped my arms around his neck while his hands settled on my waist. "No," I whispered in his ear, slipping into my native accent. "That was just to see how many women I could get to pinch your ass tonight."

He scowled at me, but I could feel his chest shake with a silent chuckle. "The answer is eleven," he said, doing his best Michael McBride.

"Ah, maybe, but the night's young!" I grinned up at him.

He kissed my nose affectionately.

"You know," he said, switching back to his normal accent. "Actually, Sam's the one who made me come down here."

I crinkled my nose with disdain.

"He's having a party tonight with his girlfriend and everyone wanted to see you there."

"Really?," I scoffed. "You can't think of anything more…interesting to do tonight?" I pressed my knees into him slightly and ran a finger around the outside of his ear.

He smiled. "Is that the real luck of the Irish?"

I nodded. "And they say everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day, so..." I slipped a few bills under my bottle. "But Michael?"

"Yeah, Fi?"

"Maybe we can stop by Sam's place first?" I started to push him into the crowd. "I have some great stories I'd love to tell his girlfriend."

"Fine," he continued pushing through the people.

"Oh, and Michael?" I yelled at him over the music.

"Yeah, Fi?" he yelled back and looked over his shoulder.

"Make that twelve," I grinned and then pinched his ass…hard.


End file.
